An address, delivered at Wichita, Kansas, on Memorial Day, 1886.

Comrades of the Grand Army, and Ladies and Gentlemen: The growing popularity of Memorial Day, and the increasing interest in the beautiful ceremonies of its observance, are among the most happy and hopeful indications of American sentiment. All the good or evil of to-day is but the result of yesterday’s teaching. Our greatest historian, speaking of the men who mustered on the village green at Lexington, “and fired the shot heard round the world,” declares that “the light that led them on was combined of rays from the whole history of the world; from the traditions of the Hebrews in the gray of the world’s morning; from the heroes and sages of Republican Greece and Rome; from the example of Him who died on the cross for the life of humanity; from the religious creed which proclaimed the divine presence in man, and on this truth, as in a life-boat, floated the liberties of nations over the dark flood of the Middle Ages; from the customs of the Germans transmitted out of their forests to the councils of Saxon-England; and from the cloud of witnesses of all the ages to the reality and rightfulness of human freedom.”

This is the lesson of Memorial Day. It is yesterday teaching to-day. It brings the peaceful present, reverently uncovered, to the grass-grown grave of the war-worn past. It teaches the living to honor the memory of those who cheerfully died for a good cause. It tells the children that, in a war for human freedom, the level of a soldier is the pinnacle of glory. And so long as heroism is thus revered and patriotism honored; so long as men and women teach their children to honor and to emulate the example of the heroes and patriots who, a quarter of a century ago, rallied around the flag of their imperiled country with such unparalleled enthusiasm, fought for it, suffered for it, died for it, lifted it into the very heavens, stainless and triumphant, and made all men free before the Constitution and the laws—so long as this is the lesson and the inspiration of the rising generations of Americans, there need be no fear that the dead have died in vain, or that the Republic they loved will perish from the earth.

In speaking to you to-day, I shall talk of some heroes and martyrs who were my comrades and my friends. They were not “born to fame.” None of them were known beyond the narrow limits of the neighborhoods in which they lived, or of the regiment they glorified by the simple manhood of their lives. Country boys, some of them, they had grown up from infancy, surrounded by calm and gracious scenes and sounds; town boys, others, they had dreamed only of business or professional pursuits, and of those triumphs and successes which, in civil life, insure a quiet and prosperous old age.

Suddenly the flash of a gun in Charleston harbor startled the land like an electric shock, and in a moment all the currents of its life were changed. The air throbbed with the roll of drums and the blare of bugles; flags fluttered in the sky, like shipwrecked rainbows; and for the first time in their lives millions of people realized what the old flag stood for. Men walked about with an unwonted flame in their eyes, and women, quick to comprehend the agony and bitter sacrifices of the years to come, and hiding in their hearts the never-lifting shadow of their fears, wept and prayed, in the silence of their rooms, that this cup might pass away.

Then came the calls for men, swiftly following one after another, and sweeping away, in successive surges, the very blossom and flower of the youth and manhood of the land. Seventy-five thousand first; then three hundred thousand, and three hundred thousand more, until the total exceeded two million seven hundred and seventy-two thousand; and in almost every home throughout the length and breadth of the land there were vacant places by the hearthstone and aching voids in the heart, that, in hundreds of thousands of cases, would nevermore be filled.

Many of you, perhaps, have seen Rogers’s statuette, “One More Shot.” Some time ago, while looking at a copy of it in a shop window, a soldier friend said: “Two of the finest types of our volunteers are represented in that group.” The martial pose of the central figure is superb; the boyish grace of his kneeling comrade is no less striking. The one represents a young man of twenty-five or thirty; his companion is a mere boy. The elder, tall, alert, resolute, looks intently forward. His broken left arm is held deftly in the folds of his coat; his gun rests against his body, and his right hand is seeking his cartridge-box. Martial, masterful, manly—there were dozens of men in every regiment who might have stood for the model of this figure. The younger, sitting on a knapsack engaged in binding up a wounded leg, and placidly indifferent to everything else, fairly represents a still larger class of our volunteers—the laughing, joking, rollicking boys, who were heroes without heroic feeling, and equal to martyrdom without one spark of a martyr’s fire.

I have, at home, a picture representing General Thomas studying a map by the light of a camp-fire, on the evening after the first day’s fight at Chicamauga. There is no artistic merit in the picture. But I bought it and have kept it because it represents, though indifferently, several other types of American soldiers. The painter has caught something of the masterful figure of Thomas. Near the great General, seated on a stump and gazing fixedly at the camp-fire, is a middle-aged Lieutenant. With his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, his grave, thoughtful, dreamy expression indicates that his mind has drifted far away from the sights and sounds about him, and is with his wife and children in the dear old home. Lazily watching the two officers is a young soldier on duty as a sentinel, with his gun resting carelessly in the hollow of his left arm. These three figures represent other types of soldiers, and are as characteristic as, though less skillfully drawn than, those of the Rogers group.

The dead soldiers I am going to speak of, like those of the Rogers group and the Thomas picture, were only types of hundreds of other volunteers. I have no doubt that, if I merely sketched them, giving no names, every soldier here present would say that I was describing men of his own regiment.

I first met one of them in the winter of 1861–2. There was a reorganization of Kansas regiments, and he was transferred to mine, with his company. Born in a small village in New York, he was country-bred, and had a fair education. Square-shouldered, strong-limbed, graceful in movement, and with every muscle and fibre of his body vigorous and healthy, his was a handsome figure. Whether some remote ancestor had transmitted to him the blood of a soldier, I do not know, but I doubt if he had ever thought of war, or of a soldier’s life, before the flash of the gun at Sumter startled the slumbering Nation. He was as modest as he was manly. If he was corrected or reproved for mistakes such as young officers frequently made in the early days of their service, he would blush like a school-girl. But he was a born soldier. His blue-gray eyes were alike steady, quick, and fearless. After three months drill he walked with the erect and martial bearing of a regular; his prompt military salute, never forgotten or omitted on any occasion, was given or responded to with a grace that was at once easy and natural; and his voice, clear as the tones of a silver bugle, had in it the ring of a true commander. He was a Captain, and his company was made up, as most volunteer companies were, of young men and boys who had been the school-mates and friends of their officers. His affection for his boys deepened and strengthened during every day of his service, and they idolized him. But not one of them ever for a moment forgot that he was their Captain, nor did he forget it. The willing respect, the cheerful and prompt obedience he gave to his superior officers, he expected from his men, and they gave it, not so much because it was enforced, as because it was deserved.

I don’t think I ever heard him utter a complaint concerning any feature of a soldier’s life, however hard or perilous it might be. The dusty marches along Southern pikes beneath the blazing heat of a summer sun; the cold and dreary tramps of midwinter; the lonely vigils of picket duty; the weary monotony of camp-life—none of these ever extorted from him a murmur. He was always and everywhere the same cheerful, patient, willing soldier; the same kindly, brave and manly gentleman.

On the morning of the 19th of September, 1863, our division moved from near Crawfish Springs to the battle-field of Chicamauga. The march was rapid, dusty and exhausting. The thunder of artillery smote the air, and the crackle of musketry at the distant fords told of a closer conflict. The troops that had passed along the road during the night had fired the fences on either side, and they were still smouldering, filling the atmosphere with stifling smoke. When we reached a point near General Rosecrans’s headquarters, we were ordered into the woods to the right, and I halted to give instructions to my regiment as it passed by. Near its center marched the young soldier of whom I have been speaking. As he came up, and halted for a moment to talk, I noted his striking appearance. His clothing was so dusty that it looked more like Confederate gray than Union blue; his face was stained with smoke; he had tied a white handkerchief about his neck, and its loose folds fell down his back; but in his walk and bearing there was no trace of either fatigue or lassitude. His step was even firmer, his bearing more erect, than usual, and his brave eyes sparkled with the excitement of the near-approaching fight.

In less than half an hour he was in the midst of it, and all day long, as the battle ebbed and flowed, and the air was turned to powder and smoke, and shells tore through the woods, and the roar of musketry grew so dense that it drowned the thunder of the cannon, his courage and enthusiasm were conspicuously illustrated. At dusk our division was relieved, and he marched his company to the field assigned for our bivouac. Over fifty per cent. of his men had been killed or wounded, but he was unhurt.

An hour later, after the command had cooked and eaten a scanty meal, the first since morning, he came to me and asked permission to take a small squad of his company and go out to the front. “I think,” he said, “that I may be able to find some of my boys who are wounded.” I gave the requested permission, but warned him not to venture too far, calling his attention to the constant firing of the picket lines. A bright smile lit up his face as he said: “Oh, I’ll be careful. But that rattle is feeble after the roar of to-day.” And giving his usual quick, graceful military salute, he wheeled and walked away out of the light of the camp-fire into the darkness.

I never saw him again. An hour later the men he had taken with him returned, and reported that they had run into a squad of the enemy; that the Captain had been shot through the heart and instantly killed; and that they were unable to bring in his body.

Thus ended the young life of Edgar P. Trego, “a soldier without fear and without reproach.” From the dull level of every-day walks and ways he stepped at once into the great events of a great era, and became a hero and a martyr for a great cause. One of the counties of this State bears his name, and is honored by it. His remains, recovered months after his death, repose in the beautiful National Cemetery at Chattanooga, with those of nearly twenty thousand other soldiers who gave up their lives that the country might live.

—The stories told by the rosters of military companies are always very meager. They are like the family histories recorded in an old Bible. A child is born; it dies. This is the beginning and the end. Now and then a marriage is noted. The army records are quite as brief. A soldier is mustered in; he is killed in battle, or dies, or is mustered out. Now and then he receives promotion, or is wounded. These are the only facts that are noted on the Company rolls. But meager as they are, they may, to one familiar with army life, tell a wonderful story of duty faithfully discharged and of dangers bravely faced. One of these military biographies—the story of another comrade and friend—I propose to quote as it is recorded in the books of the Adjutant General’s office. The subject of it was born across the ocean. The flag he followed, the Nation he gave his life to preserve, were his only by adoption. He was a German. Small in stature; his features delicate and sensitive; his complexion clear and rosy as a girl’s; well educated and of studious tastes; keeping “the noiseless tenor of his way” with a modesty only equalled by his merit, he won confidence and esteem by genuine deserving, and his history, even as it is set down in the brief notations of a regimental roster, is a wonderful story. I quote it in full:

“Zacharias Burkhardt. Born in Saxony. Merchant, 38 years of age, single. Enlisted in Co. B, Eighth Kansas Infantry, Sept. 2d, 1861, at Leavenworth, Kansas, and was mustered in as a private. Promoted Corporal, Sept. 2d, 1861. Promoted Sergeant, Nov. 17th, 1861. Promoted First Sergeant, August 1st, 1862. Promoted Sergeant Major of the Regiment, Dec. 17th, 1862. Promoted Second Lieutenant Co. B, May 13th, 1863. Promoted First Lieutenant, May 27th, 1863. Severely wounded at the battle of Chicamauga, Ga., Sept. 19th, 1863. Died at Atlanta, Ga., October 28th, 1863, of wounds received in action.”

Of his long and trying marches, in heat or cold, rain or sunshine; of the patient, zealous devotion to duty which won for him six promotions, never jumping a grade, in less than two years; of his unfailing good temper; of the exact discipline, enforced with equal kindliness, justice and firmness, he always maintained; of the modest pride with which he wore either chevrons or shoulder-straps, never exalting himself, yet never forgetting the added burdens they imposed, not only of authority but of responsibility—on all these qualities, so conspicuously illustrated during his service, I might dwell long and lovingly. But “they need no praise whose deeds are eulogy,” and nothing that I could say would add to the glory of a life so manly and unpretending, and of a death so heroic.

—A man who might have stood for the original of the principal figure of Rogers’s “Last Shot,” was Charles O. Rovohl. Tall, erect, compactly built, masterful in strength, with a fine head set on a finely proportioned body, his appearance would have attracted attention in any crowd of men. His soldierly qualities were no less conspicuous, and he was soon chosen for that post of honor and of danger, the Regimental Color-Bearer. He had enlisted in Company I, Eighth Kansas, at White Cloud, April 3d, 1862; on the 1st of January, 1863, he was promoted to be a Corporal; and in August, 1863, he was appointed Color-Bearer of the Regiment.

Around him, at Chicamauga, was a remarkable group of boyish-looking soldiers, the eight Corporals constituting the Color Guard: William E. Wendell, Co. E, Thomas Adamson, Co. D, John Binger, Co. B, George Mathews, Co. F, Charles Morgan, Co. H, Benjamin Sprouse, Co. G, Hugh Turner, Co. K, and Allen B. Bozarth, Co. H. Rovohl was about twenty-six years of age—most of his comrades were under twenty-one. Selected, as the Color Guard always is, from different companies, and with a carefulness inspired by regimental pride, the Color-Bearer and his guard of honor formed a striking group—he tall, powerful, manly, grave and silent; they boyish, beardless, laughing, chattering, careless—but one and all of them daring and gallant beyond what was common even in those heroic years.

Within an hour after the battle began, Rovohl, the Color-Bearer, was mortally wounded. When he fell his comrades indulged in a fierce dispute as to which of them was entitled to carry the flag. Several claimed it, but Wendell, affirming his seniority of rank as a Corporal, secured it. Two of them proposed to carry Rovohl to the surgeons in the rear, but he refused all help, saying: “My life is nothing-keep the flag to the front.” Corporal Wendell was soon mortally wounded, and Adamson then took the flag. Morgan and Sprouse were instantly killed, and Mathews was severely wounded. Adamson and Bozarth were also wounded. When night came and the roar of battle died away, four of these nine young men were dead, three others were wounded, and only two, Binger and Turner, were unhurt. Binger was, some weeks later, promoted to be a Sergeant, appointed Regimental Color-Bearer, and served in that position until his final muster-out, in January, 1866. He refused promotion offered him, to a Lieutenancy, because he would not part with the colors.

I have heard men, during recent years, deride eulogistic references to our country’s flag as sentimental nonsense. If any of you should hear such talk, think of these young heroes, who thought the flag was worth far more than their own lives; who so loved it and reverenced it that they cheerfully died for it; and let their devotion, their sentiment, their sacrifice, be a mute but unanswerable protest against those who deny the existence of such a thing as disinterested patriotism. And when you think of the flag, the brave old flag, the flag that means everything worth having in this country; the flag that is at once the beauty and the glory of our land; the “Old Flag” that is always new, and bright, and gracious, and inspiring; the flag that, floating against the sky, is not only the most beautiful thing a true American will ever see, but the most thrilling and sacred sentiment that warms his heart—when you think of this glorious old flag,

—During the historic march of General Sherman from Atlanta to the sea, a new term suddenly achieved notoriety and popularity, and it came, after awhile, to be applied indiscriminately and wrongfully to all his soldiers, who were spoken of as “Sherman’s bummers.” In fact, the “bummer” was a character in the Western armies long before the march to the sea began. The name only was a result of that campaign. The army “bummer” was a genuine product of the Western armies. The field of their operations was so vast, their marches so long, their movements so swift, that in time these characteristics of the whole body stimulated and exaggerated the natural restlessness and adventurous spirit of many of the men composing it, and thus the army “bummer” was developed. The term should not be confounded. The army “bummer” was not akin, even remotely, to the lazy, blear-eyed, bloated, worthless vagabond who, in civil life, is designated by this term. The army variety of the genus “bummer” was simply a restless, adventurous, investigating, daring forager; a scout not detailed for scouting duty; an independent exploring engineer, who had a natural instinct for topography and poultry, and an unerring nose for roads, by-paths, and Confederate pork and mutton. He looked with contempt on camp-guards, and regarded picket-lines with disdain. He could, without serious difficulty, make his way through an unknown country swarming with his deadly enemies. Answering “here” to his name at evening roll-call, and evading, with subtle skill, the vigilance of the sentries, he would travel ten or fifteen miles, on the darkest nights, through woods and fields he had never before seen, and, bringing back a full supply of the best the country afforded for his mess, would answer “here” at roll-call in the morning, and be ready for a twenty-mile march that day. He could accomplish the feat—impossible in times of peace—of carrying away, without being stung, a bee-hive loaded with honey and populated by a full swarm of angry bees. He was ubiquitous. In camp or with the column one moment, he was heard of an hour later, miles away, calmly inspecting a smoke-house or cellar, and retailing the most absurd inventions of his exuberant fancy to the startled inhabitants. Possessing marvelous powers of endurance, fruitful in expedients, always cool, courageous and alert, the army “bummer” was at once an enigma and a phenomenon. How he did what he did, was not capable of explanation; that he did it all was wonderful.

To this class or type of soldiers belonged James H. English, a private soldier, from the date of his enlistment until the day of his death, in Company I. Tall and supple, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh; restless under restraints; having the instincts of an explorer allied with the reckless audacity of an adventurer, “Jim” English was a character. He was born in Pike county, Missouri, a region famous for its odd specimens of humanity; was a brickmaker by trade, and twenty-four years of age. The regimental roster says he enlisted December 11th, 1861, and was present for duty until January 1st, 1864, when he reËnlisted as a veteran, and was then present for duty until December 16th, 1864, when he was killed in battle at Nashville.

Poor, restless, wandering, good-hearted, illiterate “Jim;” always “present for duty”—that was all. Always asking to go, and going whether he got permission or not. Always keeping on good terms at regimental headquarters so as to shield himself from the wrath of his Captain if the latter discovered his nocturnal absences from camp. Appointing himself forager for the field and staff, his voluntary duty was discharged with zealous faithfulness and tenacity. Queer old “Jim”—I should have gone hungry many a time if his daring and skill as a forager had not been exerted in my behalf. Many were the faults of this odd, slouching, observant, predatory, old-young fellow, but he had many good qualities also, not the least of which were his shy friendliness and his quiet good-nature. In that other and better land I hope he is not only “present for duty,” as he always was on this earth, but that he is serene and content, as he never was.

—Another and an entirely different type of our volunteer soldiers was Orderly Sergeant John W. Long, whose military history is thus recorded in the brief annals of the regiment:

“John W. Long enlisted as a private, September 30th, 1861. Born at Lemoy, Ohio; a farmer; single; twenty years old at enlistment. Promoted Corporal, May 1st, 1862. Wounded at Chicamauga, September 19th, 1863. ReËnlisted as a veteran, January 1st, 1864. Wounded at Peach Tree creek, near Atlanta, July 20th, 1864. Promoted First Sergeant, October 21st, 1864. Killed at the battle of Nashville, December 16th, 1864.”

A universal favorite was “Johnny” Long, as he was called. He was always in his place, and his brave, cheerful nature was superior to the vicissitudes of the longest tramp or the most desolate bivouac. Through all the eventful years of my service with him I am sure that I never saw a frown on his face, nor heard a complaint from his lips. If extra duty was to be performed, “Johnny” Long was always ready for it. If a forage detail was needed, after a long day’s march, the bright, contented face of “Johnny” Long, if he was a Corporal or Sergeant with the squad, gave assurance that the work assigned the detail would be vigorously and intelligently attended to. In camp, always neat, good-humored, and vivacious; on duty, always prompt, tireless, and intelligent; in battle, always steady, reliable, and brave—“Johnny” Long was at all times and everywhere an ideal soldier.

Twice the enemy’s bullets struck him, inflicting first a slight and then a severe wound, and his comrades joked him about “the third time, and out.” But he only laughed, as he did at all things personal to himself. Sympathetic and tender with the troubles or misfortunes of others, his own he made light of. But, alas! the “third time” did put out the life of this gay-hearted and fearless young soldier. In the last battle in which his regiment took part, and while gallantly charging the enemy’s works at Nashville, he was instantly killed. Some of his comrades say that his face, in death, told no story of pain or of horror. It was smiling, as in life. Hardships, privations and toil could not sour the sweet currents of his nature, and even death failed to chill the generous ardor of his soul. He died, as he had lived, with a smile on his young lips and content in his heart.

—Not all the heroes of the war whose graves will be wreathed with flowers to-day, fell in battle. It has been said that “the crowning glory of our soldiers was their peaceful disbandment.” One day they stood in line, the absolute masters of this land. Throughout its length and breadth there was no power, no authority, that they did not outrank. The next day they had disappeared, silently, peacefully, modestly, and were absorbed into the great body of American citizens. Calmly and serenely they took up the broken threads of their old life, with its toils, its cares and its perplexities, and within a month no signs of the most tremendous and momentous struggle the world has ever known were to be seen.

One of these home-returning heroes was Ferdinand A. Berger. Enlisted as a private in Company A, at Leavenworth, on the 1st of September, 1861, he was finally mustered out, at Leavenworth, January 9th, 1866, having served four years and four months. October 1st, 1861, he was promoted to be a Corporal, and on January 1st, 1862, was made a Sergeant. At Chicamauga he was severely wounded. January 1st, 1864, he reËnlisted as a veteran, and was, the same day, promoted to be First Sergeant. October 21st, 1864, he was promoted to be First Lieutenant, and in November of the same year received a commission as Captain, but could not be mustered, his company having been reduced in number below the standard. December 16th, 1864, at Nashville, he was again severely wounded. And on the 9th of January, 1866, he was finally mustered out, with his company, only nine enlisted men remaining. He was then only twenty-four years of age.

Returning to Kansas, he located in Atchison county, and engaged in farming. On the 8th of January, 1879, he came to Atchison city, in the full enjoyment of health, to attend to some business affairs. Shortly after noon, a runaway team attached to an overturned sleigh, came dashing up the street. With characteristic promptness and courage, Captain Berger sprang in front of the frantic horses, and seizing them by their bits, managed to stop them. The owner then came up and caught the reins, but the maddened animals continued to plunge and struggle, and Captain Berger attempted to unhitch their traces. While thus engaged, one of the horses delivered a vicious kick, its iron-shod hoof striking him fair in the face, breaking his jaw in several places, and producing a severe contusion of the brain. Two days later he died from the effects of his injuries.

Thus one of the most faithful and heroic of soldiers, who had passed through the harvest of death at Chicamauga, stormed the blazing heights of Mission Ridge, gone unharmed through the campaign to Atlanta, and charged the rebel works at Nashville, lost his life, at last, on the peaceful streets of a Kansas town, while endeavoring to save the lives of others.

—I might sketch for you many other soldiers, as brave, patriotic and self-sacrificing as those I have named. Every volunteer regiment had in its ranks scores of such men. Indeed, I should like to speak of Capt. John L. Graham, of Robert M. Hale, of William H. Horr, of Gil. M. Judah, of John W. McClellan, and many others among the martyred dead, and of dozens who passed unscathed through the fiery furnace of war and are still among the living. But my purpose is fulfilled. I simply desired to present an outline sketch of a few soldiers, differing widely in temperaments and personal characteristics, but all fair types of the men whose valor and patriotism crushed the greatest rebellion the world has ever witnessed. The pictures are incomplete, I know. I regret that a hand more skillful than mine has not drawn them; that a tongue more eloquent than mine could not have told the inspiring story of their dauntless courage and their sublime self-sacrifice. But as I knew them I have tried to present them to you, not as soldiers of rare or exceptional qualities and services, but as representatives and types of thousands of their comrades, living and dead. In every city, town and neighborhood of Kansas may be found soldiers of these types, for our wonderful population includes more than a hundred thousand men who have marched to the music of a drum:

I might have talked to you of campaigns and battles, or discussed the causes and results of the war, or spoken of army life in general. But these are harvested fields, in which I did not care to glean after the reapers who had gone before. So it seemed to me that I might interest you, for a few brief moments, by telling this simple story of a few of the martyred dead whose lives and services, although not written in any history, are worthy of record on the brightest pages of fame’s deathless memoirs. The Union army contained a vast host of men such as these I have described. Never in any other land beneath the sun, nor in any other age since the morning stars first sang together, did such an array of brilliant youth and splendid manhood rally around any standard to do battle for any cause. From schools and workshops, from fair country fields and busy marts of commerce, the bravest, brightest, best of all the land came thronging to fields lit by the baleful fires of civil war, to fight, to suffer, and to die for the Republic and for Freedom. The comforts of home, the charms of society, the joys of love, the profits of commerce, the acquisitions of industry, the allurements of ambition, the delights of ease—all these were abandoned for the privations, the hardships, the dangers of a soldier’s life. The world was fair and beautiful to them, the future hopeful and happy. But they gave all they had—the boundless resources of their youth, the potent energies of their manhood, the devotion of their hearts, even life itself—for Union and Liberty. Saint nor martyr never gave more.